


and this isn't goodbye

by amsves



Series: the zero hour [2]
Category: Code Geass
Genre: Angst, C.C.-centric, Gen, Light Angst, Pre-Requiem, References to Catholicism, Religion, Zero Requiem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amsves/pseuds/amsves
Summary: In the early hours of the morning, C.C. slips out of the bed that she shares with Lelouch.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Tell Me You Love Me' by Boy Epic, which is also the recommended listening.

In the early hours of the morning, C.C. slips out of the bed that she shares with Lelouch.  
  
She dresses quickly, quietly, in her straitjacket, spares a glance at the sleeping boy behind her, and closes the door with a near-silent _click_.  
  
She makes her way to the chapel slowly. Of course the Imperial Palace would have its own chapel; it wasn’t called the _Holy_ Britannian Empire for nothing. Those fools truly believed, or at least pretended to believe, that their war and destruction, their system of racism and oppression, their blatant disregard for human life was the will of the God above. It should sicken her, how they can justify their actions as the will of the Creator, when they should know that He advocates for everything they fight against: peace and prosperity and equality.  
  
It should sicken her. Perhaps, if she was still human, still had the capacity to feel and hate and love, it would.  
  
But it does not. The deaths of countless natives of the eighteen Areas forcefully stolen by the Empire, coupled with the deaths of countless soldiers from the Empire, blindly following orders to fight for what they thought was right, are as insignificant as individual grains of sand upon the shore. Perhaps the tide will come in, perhaps it will not. Nothing matters, not anymore.  
  
The chapel is, at the very least, beautiful. Four rows of mahogany pews, split up the center by a blood-red carpet running to the white marble altar are illuminated by the stained glass window making up the entire east wall. The sun is not yet risen, but it will be, soon, and the whole room, the whole world will be swathed in colors cast by the fractals of glass. The window has always made her slightly uncomfortable, has always been slightly too similar to the window in the convent where she was turned, but she fights down the bile that threatens her throat and kneels at the base of the altar. This is not about her.  
  
It has always been about her, for her six hundred or so years of “life,” or _experience_ as she prefers to call it. A life without change ceases to be a life at all. She has learned that much in her six hundred years of existence.  
  
But, again, this is not about her. This is about the boy named Lelouch vi Britannia.  
  
A single tear trickles down her cheek, and that single tear opens the floodgates for the rest to follow in rapid succession because that’s all he is; he’s just a _boy_ for God’s sake! Lelouch is only eighteen years old, and all he’s ever wanted to do was care for his sister. Surely, that’s not so bad, not evil enough to warrant the sentence about to be carried out!  
  
Lelouch Lamperouge is dead. Lelouch vi Britannia will soon join him in the spirit world, in the world of forgotten names and discarded faces. Whether or not Lelouch will continue on remains to be determined.  
  
The sun winks over the horizon, a great fiery ball of despair and desperation because with it comes the day that will kill the only person she’s been able to feel _anything_ for in at least a century.  
  
C.C. hasn’t believed in a god in years, decades, centuries, but today, she clasps her hands, casts her eyes towards the heavens, and prays.  
  
She begs whatever god who may exist to please, please spare Lelouch, please let the plan have worked, please doom him to wander the Earth with her as an immortal, because surely that’s punishment enough? At least, this way, they’ll have each other. If Lelouch dies, she will have to start over. No one is going to care about her for so many more lonely years. V.V. is dead; Marianne is dead; the Geass Order has been destroyed. Without Lelouch she will be as alone as she has always been.  
  
It’s so selfish, she knows, to want to doom Lelouch to her hell, but she can’t help it. He’d promised, after all. Twice, in fact. First, when he pledged to become a warlock so that they would match, and later, when he promised to make her happy.  
  
But how can she be happy if the only person who can make her feel _anything_ is dead?  
  
Lelouch is a serial liar, of this she is aware.  
  
But still.  
  
The white of her clothes are stained in bright hues, orange and red and pink and blue, but predominantly purple and gold. There’s some symbolism in there, she’s sure. After all, she wears the straitjacket because she is not free. It’s only fitting that the thing binding her most strongly at the moment is splattered across the fabric.  
  
She doesn’t wear the straitjacket all the time, but it’s only fitting to wear it now. When she met Lelouch on that fateful day in Area Eleven, when he was just a disgraced prince masquerading as a schoolboy and she was being held by the military, she had been clothed in, restrained by this same fabric. She won’t be there at the execution, per Lelouch’s request. The sight of him that morning, slumbering peacefully, looking so small in that monstrous bed that they shared, is the last she will ever gaze upon his face during his human lifespan. If all goes according to plan, she’ll see him later today, but if something goes wrong, that is the last she will ever see him.  
  
She’s thankful for the insurance. At least, if they made a mistake somewhere, the last memory of Lelouch that she will ever have is one of him at rest, not one of him going down in a blaze of glory.  
  
Hopefully, though, she’ll have centuries with him to make new memories. Hopefully, though, Lelouch will resurrect in just a few hours. Hopefully, though, he won’t vanish into the flow of time like everyone else who ever mattered because he _isn’t_ everyone else, he’s _Lelouch_ and he’s _hers_ and she’ll be damned, if she wasn’t already, if she’ll let anyone take him away from her.  
  
The tears have mostly stopped now. She’s run out of things to say to a god she isn’t even sure exists, doesn't even know is listening. And yet, she remains, kneeling at the foot of the marble altar, bathed in light.  
  
She feels vaguely … holy. Like an angel is standing over her shoulder. She turns, ever so slightly, but there’s nothing there, of _course_ there’s nothing there, because God doesn’t exist and if God doesn’t exist then angels are fake too, and Heaven is a lie, and there’s nothing for her after death so she should just stop wishing for it already—  
  
The door creaks open behind her. Panicked, she whips around to face the intruder.  
  
It’s Lelouch.  
  
He’s dressed in his typical finery, the white robes reminiscent of the angels she’s just convinced herself don’t exist, glowing in the golden light. Silently, he crosses the room to her. She scoots over on the kneeler, and he joins her there. They face straight ahead.  
  
“I’m surprised to see you here,” she admits, and glances at him out of the corner of her eye.  
  
“I could say the same.” He gives a typical Lelouch smile: a small one, barely an upward turn of the lips, one that seems like it’s more _sad_ than _happy_. “I never took you for a believer.”  
  
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” she retorts, but she’s teasing, as usual.  
  
It’s enough to make Lelouch smile for real, if only for a second. He turns to face her. “If all goes according to plan, I’ll have centuries to learn everything I don’t know about you.”  
  
She stifles a sob, turns it into a chuckle. “Don’t get too cocky, Lelouch. Really, your impending execution should have humbled you, but you’re still arrogant as ever, I see.”  
  
He doesn’t respond, just takes a hand and trails it tenderly through her long shamrock hair, savoring the delicate tickle of it sliding across his palm. “Tell me, C.C. I’ve always wondered, is your hair naturally green?”  
  
She gives him a trademark smirk, one that brags of hidden knowledge and teases of secrets. “That’s something you’ll have to find out after you live through the Zero Requiem.”  
  
“Well, then, I suppose that’s motivation enough to live.” He stands, and places a hand on her shoulder. “I’m off.”  
  
She places her hand on his, gives it a reassuring squeeze before dropping it. “I’ll see you later.”  
  
“Are we still on for dinner in Australia?” he calls over his shoulder as he leaves.  
  
“Depends on how long it takes you to regenerate!” she calls back. “If you’re a slowpoke, we might have to reschedule for breakfast tomorrow!”  
  
And then, he’s gone.  
  
C.C. collapses to the floor of the chapel and weeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I really wanted to explore the glimpses we get of C.C. as the Zero Requiem is being carried out. Idk why, they just really struck a chord with me.


End file.
